18/02/2026
You used to say, “I had a momma and I had a daddy…” whenever you were ready to let us know we’d crossed a line, sometimes out of love, sometimes with that sharp little edge that meant you were about to cuss us out or remind us you were raised right. And sometimes… well, that’s a story for another time. It still makes me smile.
I look back at my journal from the day we learned your diagnosis. One line said we would be grieving you in stages, that you would change day by day. And you did. At first it was month to month, then week to week… until it felt like minute to minute, each moment bringing a new version of you, a new baseline we learned to love.
No one prepares you for the grief that comes after someone you’ve already been grieving while they were still here. You think you’re ready because you watched the changes, because you carried that quiet sorrow day after day, but the silence afterward still arrives in a way you can’t prepare for.
You fought hard. Thirteen days past the time doctors said you only had hours. You hung on with a strength that felt bigger than your body.
I will miss the smell of your ci******es burning like incense, the room temperature coffee you reheated five times because you forgot, and even the soap operas I pretended to hate, because I would give anything to sit and watch Days of Our Lives with you one more time.
But now you are finally at rest.
You’re with Grandma and Papa again.
I love you.
And don’t you ever forget it!!
